


Dog Days Are Over (It's a New World Darlin')

by StrikeTeamDelta (panicsdownpour)



Series: Sugar, Butter, Flour [1]
Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BuckyNat Secret Santa, Christmas, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Holidays, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 21:42:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17475497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panicsdownpour/pseuds/StrikeTeamDelta
Summary: A pillow-talk confession reveals neither Natasha nor Bucky have had a proper Christmas in more than a few years. With a little determination, a bit of a mess, and a near encounter with hypothermia, they just might change history.





	Dog Days Are Over (It's a New World Darlin')

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MisasBiggestFan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisasBiggestFan/gifts).



> Written as a gift for the lovely misasbiggestfan, for Buckynat Secret Santa 2018! Hope you had a lovely holiday and enjoy the story as much as I enjoyed writing it- the unforeseen circumstances had me a little delayed but a secondary bit following right behind!
> 
> Prompt: Bucky and Nat during Christmas!

Natasha was neither remotely interested in anything that could be called culinary, nor did she have an affinity for mess. She didn't have a history of being a sentimental person or an especially decorative one. She could count the number of happy holidays she had experienced on one hand, two if you counted one of Tony's Christmas parties that had involved a very expensive portrait of the host himself going up in flames at the hands of a starry-eyed fire breather. And she didn't count it, amusing though it might have been once the smoke had cleared.

All that said, it was entirely out of character and not at all easy to understand finding herself there, in the middle of the loft's kitchen, covered in milk and flour and a handful of red and green sprinkles for good measure.

"Is it a Merry Christmas yet?"

Doubled over with a wadded up kitchen towel in his hands, one James Buchanan Barnes wiped tears from his eyes as another bout of laughter burst forth, his chest heaving in a struggle of an effort to catch his breath. From atop the refrigerator, Liho watched the commotion down below, tail swishing back and forth in obvious agitation.

"Really?" Her lips pursed in annoyance, a twitch at the corner of her mouth threatened to betray a smile, hands rested at her hips. Natasha surveyed the mess the kitchen had become with a single wrong move courtesy of their feline friend, shaking her head in resigned disbelief.

"Fine. So. It's a little funny. But that funny?" she demanded, her apron-clad companion nodding immediately. "You bet. You gotta look at yourself from here, sweetheart. Especially because if I crane my head a little, I can still see the living room. And the snowman out the window. The one the garbage man ran over. We're definitely having a merrier Christmas than that guy. His mitten is down the block in front of the old folks home. If it's this or that, I'll take the tornado."

"This was for you, you know?"

Bucky guffawed at the indignant question. "For me? I don't think so, darlin'. _You_ were the one that said the last good Christmas they had that didn't involve light arson or a side of treason was when you were just old enough to find _Ералаш_ enjoyable and not mind-numbing after hearing it for the hundredth time. Side note: remind me to throw the television out before we babysit for Clint again, because your nostalgia may kill me if there's a next time." Finally stepping out of the mess they had created, a hand on the counter ledge to keep steady on the slippery surface, Natasha rolled her eyes. "I'd like to point out that you were the one who I distinctly remember saying that the last holiday celebration you remember involved eating something called "U.S. Army Menu Number Five Ham Chunks"." At the reminder of an unhappily recalled meal, Bucky involuntarily grimaced; she had him there. Fine, he'd wave the white flag at that one.

"We'll say it was all fate, call it even?” he conceded, flicking a bit of partially mixed dough off his sweater.

The mess of fate was the result of an insult, drowsily uttered the evening before, the pair falling asleep to lazy conversation in the pallid glow of a long forgotten television program. 

“You realize that’s pathetic.” It could have been a question, Natasha said it matter of factly because there was no question about it; it was pathetic and a little bit sad that between the two of them, their most recent holiday memories added up to what they added up to. The subject had come up when they’d touched on the subject of whether they wanted to do anything on Christmas or not. Natasha had suggested a small town cinema visit and Chinese food, Bucky had vehemently rejected the idea. Her very vague and possibly flawed memories of early childhood Christmas’ came out in an effort to support her ideas. He countered with his own experience the Christmas’ preceding, at least the last few decades - he’d done more or less nothing different with his day, aside from stop into church for the old time feel of Christmas Eve mass the last year or two. 

Neither sounded like a celebration.

Tinned, Army-issued ham chunks and a handful of fuzzy carol lyrics Natasha could remember. Bucky had the better between the two of them, he thought to himself but didn’t share. Before all the brainwashed years and the holidays spent beating down Hitler and his pals, he had nothing but good to remember. Sure, his memories weren’t as clear as they used to be, but more returned all the time and he had something. Family dinners and tree decorating and his mother’s soup. Oranges in their stockings, even the older ones. Seeing Santa in the department store window and playing Santa to the younger kids when he was old enough. When he tried real hard, he could almost remember the taste of the cookies his mother would make- nothing fancy, just flour and sugar and water, a little bit of butter. With the buttery taste teasing his tastebuds, he’d decided then and there that they were going to do something to turn things around. Nothing too big, maybe a stop at a bakery and a sit down for a Christmas movie. 

A slightly jazzed up Christmas would be a hopefully-well-received surprise for Natasha, and wouldn’t be expected at all. It would be something of a gift. Not that he was ever going to skip out on the chance to spend a little much money on her, though the gift would be late thanks to a few busy nights putting in hours.

So it couldn’t be difficult to understand his surprise upon being woken just after sunrise by a determined, dressed, and caffeinated Natasha, morning’s first light still streaming between the blinds. 

“If you sleep all morning, we’re going to miss Christmas. Christmas Eve, anyway,” she’d announced, standing at the foot of the bed, a handful of what looked to be tinsel. The sand still in his eyes made it difficult for Bucky to be certain. He’d rolled over and buried his head underneath his pillow, trying to make sense of what was happening. Once he’d gotten past the grumpiness of the early hour and his curiosity won over, he’d flipped over and faced the dim light of day, peeking an eye open just in time to have his vision obscured by a pair of his jeans tossed by the Holiday Director herself. “Get dressed. We have roughly eighteen hours until Christmas, and we’re lacking in traditions.”

Natasha had decided when she had woken, right around eight p.m., that the decidedly drab state of their apartment wasn't going to cut it, not for their first Christmas in their own place, together. Especially after her partner’s reminiscing the evening before about ghosts of family Christmas’ past. The first one up, Natasha was going to fix the disaster she’d only just noticed. And her first order of business had been to get the center piece of their holiday- a tree.

She had dressed hastily once her decision was made and forayed out into the blustery evening to find them the makings of a civilian holiday. One trip to the 24-hour drugstore around the corner, a stop at the curb, and a little duck tape later, and Natasha was ready for the Brooklynite’s verdict. Which so far was underwhelming, but she was going to let it go. She would just have to get him into the spirit of things.

A trip to the master bathroom, a splash of cold water to help wake up, and Bucky had trudged out of their bedroom to find himself staring down a scraggly spruce plopped crookedly in the corner of their tiny apartment living room, a dusting of needles sprinkled around the shag carpet. It was still a little snowy, though most of it had already melted, making the tree glisten just so. 

”Wow. I mean…wow.” Bucky slowly circled the room, pulling his robe tighter over his bare chest and jeans combo while he surveyed the prominent decorative addition to the loft. “Since when is a tree a big deal for you? I thought you said “you couldn’t see the point,” he pointed out, lifting an eyebrow as he regarded his girlfriend, arms crossed. Bucky could feel the start of a smile tugging at his lips, though he struggled against letting it get too wide. It would take some of the fun out of ragging on her.

“James.” His name was said with such dramatic resignation that he nearly snorted. “A girl can change. It’s our first Christmas here, and we pay enough for the place -well, SHIELD does- for it to deserve a few decent Christmas traditions. I might not have a long history of celebrating the holidays, but I know you can’t do that without a tree," she replied matter-of-factly, to which Bucky softened ever so slightly, even as he countered her answer. "You told me that five years ago, you celebrated alone with Thai food and CNN in a safe-housein Missoula. But we suddenly need tradition?"

Natasha stepped forward, taking the man by the shoulders -ignoring the height difference that forced her to lean up just a bit to meet his eyes easily- and regarding him with veiled adoration even as he vaguely frustrated her. Leave it to Bucky to want to rough it even when they didn't have to, to make difficult what was already a stretch for her despite the relative simplicity of the matter. “Things change. Governments, alliances, memories, plans. Why not the holidays, while we’re laying low. While things are quiet. New traditions. You said it yourself— I don’t have the best history with holidays. Please.” Making it about her was an almost surefire way to turn him onto the idea. She knew him; he might resist doing anything extra if he thought it would inconvenience her. If she made it about her and her wishes- it was almost as good as done.

The request came out so sincerely hopeful that Bucky couldn't easily deny her. And so he didn't, rolling his eyes but uncrossing his arms in apparent surrender that failed to betray the very real excitement bubbling up. "Fine. What kind of traditions are we talking about? Tell me there won’t be any caroling. I always hated caroling,” he inquired suspiciously, eyes narrowing as his arms slid around her waist. Her smile demur but growing, she leaned just slightly away to keep her eyes locked on his. “In terms of plans, there might be a delivery order placed in your name. I know you thought that me triggering the fire alarm for the entire building during breakfast last week was hilarious, but I'm going to make your death slow and painful if you make me do it again in the name of getting all sentimental." Natasha’s expression turned almost sheepish, her shoulders rising only to fall again in a shrug. She hadn't actually thought much further than the cheap garland he had taped around the flat, and the icicle-laden tree on the floor behind her. 

“Take out sounds good. Chinese?” Bucky questioned. She quickly replied with a shake of her head. “Elevated takeout. You’ll see. In terms of traditions...I was hoping you would have some ideas. Actually, that’s your job. Anything? The only other thing I have is doing eggnog shots. And I already did most of the heavy lifting. Literally,” she announced decisively, motioning towards the Christmas tree.

Bucky guessed he couldn't really argue with that. Or he could, but maybe there were some fights not worth winning. "Fine," he conceded. "No complaining, or asking for another one. And this probably will have to be your gift," he went on, "at least for now, considering I may be a little late with your actual gift. So you have to love whatever I pick," he announced, listing off his terms. "Got it?"

“Loud and clear, sergeant. Now what's it gonna be? Shit, I forgot to say it can't be anything that involves actual cash or alcohol, since I gave the guy who gave me the tree off the curb the rum for the eggnog. So I guess that means the eggnog shots are dead too,” Natasha replied, her thoughts running on. Luckily he knew enough not to give her a chance to keep following the train.

"Done? Or did you change your mind about my tradition and just want to spend the rest of the night explaining everything you gave away?"

"Oh shut up and pick. Please," came her humored reply.

 

A long pause - probably longer than was strictly acceptable- and Bucky had his answer. It came out of left field, even for him, but it was right. He knew that much. 

“Snow angels. Summer snow angels.”

The answer earned an eye roll on arrival. “So are you going to make fun of me the whole holiday, Barnes, or just today?” Natasha teased, but was quickly cut off by the brunette hushing her to clarify. "But wait," he began again, looking to head off the extended protest he could see coming. They had gotten to know each other a whole lot better after spending the better part of the last year together, not to mention years in lives past; Bucky could tell when he was about to earn himself an especially up hill battle, “I’m not making fun of your sudden festiveness. I mean it. Snow angels. Polar bear style. Summer snow angels. Like you get on shorts, I'll...I don't know, find something like that and...snow angels.” Nothing serious, but something new. I don’t want to try and recreate the past. We’re here now. I want something ours. New.” He insisted, drawing her in closer as he earned himself another look. Snow angels were new. Neutral ground. They weren’t his and they weren’t hers. They could be theirs. Natasha should have seen it coming. Ever considerate, ever generous, never too inwardly focused.

Seeing he had the chance to win her over, the man rushed on with his proposal, running with the idea. ”How bout this- one snow man and snow angels for as long as you can handle it. I mean, it’s gotta be twenty degrees out," he estimated, running his tongue along his bottom lip for a fleeting moment as he considered the possibilities. "First one who cracks and goes in has to make Christmas dessert. How 'bout it?"

What had she gotten herself into?

Natasha never could resist a direct challenge.

"Fine. Last one out has to lose their flip-flops,” she chimed in, letting herself get sucked into the arguably harebrained scheme. They’d be lucky if they didn't lose their apartment, running out into the snow dressed like lunatics, she thought to herself as he leaned in and kissed him, soft and short and smiling into the motion of affection.

Forty five minutes later and Natasha was wondering when she was going to learn to back down. Bucky had stripped down to nothing but a pair of pineapple-stamped swim trunks and a pair of knock-off RayBans, while she had found a long tank top and a pair of boxer shorts, her hair tied up in a ponytail like that would keep it from the mess of white on the ground. Neither lost a moment's time despite the hysterical, embarrassed laughter that came on; the sooner they got to the task at hand, the sooner the other could lose.

Two minutes in and Natasha hadn't been so ridiculously cold or as ridiculously, near-completely at ease since...well, ever. Even in fourteen-odd inches of snow with a consistent breeze, the two of them cursing and flailing about making what must have the ugliest snow angels imaginable. This was everything she wanted, out there shivering like nobodies business while the warm light from their third floor apartment spilled across the grass and walkway of the sagging apartment building. This was joy, this was safety, this was pain born of the simplest fun, this was that four letter word she still had trouble choking out. This was home; it had been a while, but the package of it together...yeah, this was home. Freezing her ass off in the name of tradition and trying to get a smile out of James for Christmas.

The moment of overwhelming hilarity had barely passed before Bucky had decided pneumonia might permanently ruin things. He would be the bigger person. He couldn’t really ask for anything more from her, and definitely not to win the _worst_ contest they’d ever come up against each other in.

Natasha swore loudly, sitting up and wrapping her arms tight around herself, her shirt sticking to her skin, hair plastered to the sides of her face from when she had taken the hair tie out of it. "Tie. God, please, a tie. In the name of Christmas or something. And we can make a freaking hot shower a tradition too. In the name of not getting hypothermia. If you don't make me beg, there might just be a spot in there for you too."

Scrambling to his feet at the first sounds of surrender (whether she would admit that was what it was or not), Bucky was making a run for the door before she could make a move. They knew each other far too well. Home it was. Being the loser was worth whatever the rest of the afternoon brought. 

A mad rush to the bathroom -“Quit hogging the hot water or you’re going to live with Frosty out there”- an extended joint shower and a foray into decorating later, and Natasha was proposing her own addition to their newly minted collection of traditions. Cookies he’d mentioned and she had called Steve about. Armed with a detailed text message and a drawing of what the finished product should look like straight from Steve’s memories, she knew how to do her research and prized herself on self-sufficiency.

“I’ll help,” Natasha promised with a purposeful sickly sweetness, solely for the reaction it caused. “Even if I _did_ win.” 

Bucky waved away her self-congratulations with a motion of his hand, too overwhelmed with gratitude for the deceivingly small but nonetheless extraordinary gesture that was hunting down the mostly complete recipe from his childhood. They’d wing what Steve hadn’t been able to remember. He had a little more faith in his memory these days; once they got started, it would come back to him, like riding a bike. And if it didn’t, there was another new one for their books. 

How had his plan to create a real Christmas for Natasha turned into her giving him the holiday he hadn’t known he’d been missing so terribly. “You won,” he agreed far more easily than she’d foreseen, pulling her in for a moment of tender affection. By the time the passionate embrace ended and his eyes opened again, he was able to blink away the tears that had sprung up. Two birds, one stone. “Alright, Captain Christmas. You grab the butter, I’ll find the flour,” he directed, rolling up his sleeves, grinning as he let her get started. “And I guess you can supervise. Just stay up there, so you don’t get in trouble,” he had warned the cat who had sauntered in while he dug in refrigerator. Natasha didn’t like the feline underfoot while they cooked, but there was an unspoken leniency due to the holidays. It should be a family affair, right? So Liho would stay, supervising from a perch in an open cabinet.

Which brought them all to the unfortunately sticky place of standing amongst sugar and flour, kibble and pistachios, the three in the middle of a minor baking disaster. Nobody could be quite sure what exactly had happened, but between a rogue mixer, a frightened Liho, and a poorly placed pan, they had managed to pull it off.

"We'll say it was all fate, call it even?” he conceded, flicking a bit of partially mixed dough off his sweater. 

“…Only because it’s Christmas,” came Natasha’s reply, “and I’m nice that way.”

“No argument there. Listen, you’ve done enough. More than enough, honestly. I’m not kiddin’, all jokes aside. Why don’t I take over?” Bucky carefully put the tray that had survived the massacre carefully atop the microwave, then extended his hand to Natasha, dishtowel over his arm. She accepted both the towel and the hand to make the leap over a large splatter of porcelain and dough. “I’ll clean up,” he offered, “you get the butter out of your hair, pick out a movie. One of those cheesy ones you and Clint were bingeing the other night, when he lied and said he didn’t really even like ‘em all that much. The cheesy ones are the good ones. Don’t tell him I said that.”

“Thank you. Seriously. By the way, that delivery should be here some time soon. It’s Bamonte’s, by the way. Who knew saving Manhattan would get them to deliver all the way from Brooklyn,” she said with a breath of a life, leaving her partner gaping at her back. 

“Steve again?” It had been his favorite restaurant as a kid, where his parents would haul the family for supper on birthdays or promotions at school. Two booths and half dozen tables, it was cramped and hot but it was the best in Brooklyn, or so his mother said. Besides her kitchen, of course. It was very, very far and the last thing he would have expected. Man, she was good.

“Yeah. He has a surprisingly good memory for an old guy. What’s your excuse?” She tossed over her shoulder.

“Tasha? Hold on.” Poking her head around the corner from the hallway, she lifted an eyebrow. “Hmm?” 

“Best mess of a Christmas Eve ever. I love you.”

“Don’t worry about it, _Пожалуйста_ ," she shrugged, “I love you too.” His soft sincerity made her heart skip a beat, the tension the kitchen mishap had set in her shoulders melting away just that fast. It really had been nothing, but in another sense, maybe it had been much bigger. Regardless, she was happy.

“We doing this again next year?” He asked, his smile impish as if the spark in his eye didn’t give away the level of humor he found in the question. 

“Not a chance, _мой дорогой_.” And she was gone, smiling herself as she slipped into their bedroom, catching one last call from living room. 

If the cookies were enough evidence, they couldn’t recreate all his old traditions or change her own holiday past, but they could make sure they had new ones. With new, good memories attached. With new life and with love.

“Christmas Eve was yours. But tomorrow it’s my turn. So get ready for some competition!”

 


End file.
